The Lazarus War: Legion (21 page)

Alliance Day marked not only the founding of the Alliance, but through engineered coincidence also the end of the Martian Rebellion. When I was a kid, the annual celebration had been a big deal – a chance for disparate and often fractured communities to come together in a common cause. I could still remember the street celebrations. Fireworks, hot food, a late night: such simpler times. The few fond memories I had of the Metro seemed to revolve around Alliance Day.

This was a pitiful affair in comparison. It was held in the mess hall; the room cleaned out for the event. Tables were pushed to the edge of the room, lights dimmed, some music piped in through the ship’s PA. Loeb had issued an open invite to the
Colossus
’ officers and all off-duty personnel but few had attended. Those that had were in a sombre and withdrawn mood. Ordinarily it would’ve been an easy trip between the
Colossus
and the other ships in the battlegroup – a short shuttle ride – but the storm had locked down inter-fleet transport. I’d heard that similar gatherings were being held across the fleet, and couldn’t help wondering whether those parties were any better than this.

The only positive aspect of the gathering was alcohol. The last supply run had ferried some crates of alcohol as well as the usual food rations. A few thousand cans of Alliance-issue beer, together with some stronger spirits: enough to take the edge off.

James and Scorpio Squadron had opened up the adjoining rec room. That was a small, cramped chamber, with a holo-pool table in one corner and a very amateur-looking bar in the other. A deckhand was playing the role of bartender; mixing ad hoc cocktails and distributing bottles of beer.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Elena.

Did I really see her? I wanted to believe that she had been real. But even I could appreciate that there were so many unanswered questions, too many improbabilities. I had to make another transition.
This time
, I told myself,
I’ll know for certain
. But I couldn’t make transition without arousing suspicion. I had to pick my moment.

So I did what I do best: I got drunk.

I sat at a table in the rec room. Lieutenant James perched at the bar beside me.

“Credit for your thoughts?” he asked.

“I don’t feel like talking.”

“I heard about what happened.”

I changed the train of the conversation. “You ever change that flight-suit?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said, taking a deep swig from his beer.

“I thought that you said that alcohol didn’t affect you?”

James smiled. “I said that I filter out the good stuff before it can act. But there are ways around that.” He indicated to the line of empty bottles on the bar top. “Namely: speed. If I drink a lot, and I do it fast, then it’ll work for me. Just don’t tell Dr West.”

I laughed. The lieutenant popped off his barstool, pulled up a chair at my table.

“Like I said: I heard about what happened.”

“I’ll bet everyone has. I guess that it’s the talk of the ship.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. You saw what you saw; nothing else to be said.”

Above James, an ancient two-D viewer played a speedball match. Although it had probably finished a decade ago in real-time, the flyboys were oblivious to the party going on around them and were intently viewing the game.

“This place is getting to us all,” James went on.

“You seeing things then?”

“No,” James said, shaking his head. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

“I’m a soldier without a job,” he said, letting the words roll out slowly.

“You’re a pilot, James. Not a soldier.”

“Same difference. It’s just that, what with your new approach plans – using the drop-capsules – there isn’t much room for the Aerospace Force any more.”

“I guess,” I said.

James looked dejected; now that we knew the Artefact’s defence plan involved taking out space fighters, his squadron was without a proper role. The mission had moved on and James had become redundant.

“Be thankful for the downtime,” I said.

“I’d rather be in the saddle, killing bad guys. The Legion gets all the best jobs.”

I took in the Legion, dispersed around the room. Kaminski sat in another corner of the rec hall, alone. His eyes were red and he looked tired; today had taken its toll. He was quiet – very unlike Kaminski – looking over at Jenkins. She wore a cling-film green dress, exposing her chest in a decidedly more feminine fashion than usual. How she had acquired the dress was beyond my alcohol-blunted brain: I was sure that she hadn’t brought it out here. As she danced, Jenkins occasionally looked over in Kaminski’s direction, making fleeting eye contact, grinding against Mason, or swinging the younger girl around in a circle. They were all pretending to enjoy themselves, doing impressions. The Legion was haunted. Mason’s face was a ruddy mess of lacerations; that one eye still filled with black blood, a warped reflection of Saul with his milky blind eye.

But James wanted to talk, and he kept going. “Nine years in the Force, Harris. I’ve seen it all: been to Ipcress Quadrant, fought the Krell in the Van Diem Straits. But this is different. It’s not just dying on that approach to the Artefact. I’ve seen your vid-feeds of the Reaper. This thing – whatever it is – gets to me.”

“Well,” I said, “if you’ve seen our feeds, you’ll know that this op is a bit more complicated than just killing a bad guy. Even our plasma rifles are bouncing off that son of a bitch.”

“At least you’re doing something,” James said. “Even dying on the Artefact is better than sitting around here and waiting for new orders.”

I finished my beer. James nodded at the bartender, passed me another. As I took it, I noticed that my hands were shaking – almost uncontrollably.
Fuck; I need to make transition so bad
. James saw it too but gave me a weak smile and pretended not to notice.

“I got a wife and kid,” he said. “On Alpha Centauri.”

“Good for you.”

James ignored the sarcasm. “Not so much. I haven’t seen my wife in what feels like for ever. I’ve been away for so long, I’m not sure how old my daughter’d be in real-time.” For a moment, I was afraid that he was going to get the family photo out; impress on me that his child really was the cutest in the township. “Doesn’t mean that I don’t think about them every night. Anyone ever threatened them, I don’t know what I’d be capable of doing.”

“Is there a point to this conversation?” I asked.

James laughed. “Just do what you got to do, Major. To protect the ones you love.”

We sat for a long while, drinking our beers, old men on a house porch at dusk. That was how I felt: old and used up. I was far from drinking my fill but I was out of touch with the rest of the room. I didn’t recognise the music, didn’t recognise the faces. Even Jenkins and Kaminski; they were more than just soldiers. They were people beyond the gun and the armour—

There was a sudden commotion at the end of the bar.

The atmosphere around me – such that it was – suddenly crashed. Although I was drunk, my senses immediately sharpened.

Kaminski bolted from his table, across the hall. Jenkins was standing over at the rec bar now, laughing. Williams was beside her, leaning close into her personal space. From where I sat, I couldn’t tell whether the attention was invited or not: Jenkins’ back was to me. The crowd parted, and I saw a flash of Williams’ hand on the small of her back.

“Hey!” Kaminski yelled, jabbing a finger towards them. “Asshole!”

Williams immediately withdrew his hand; faked ignorance of the angry trooper shouting across the room.

“Just leave it, ’Ski,” I called after him.

“What the fuck you doing?” Kaminski said, his voice dripping with Brooklynese. “I’m talking, you fucker!”

The party seemed to freeze, officers and crew standing aside to let Kaminski through. He stormed across the room.

“Hey, man,” Williams said. “Way to go to spoil the mood. I’m just talking to the sergeant about old times, is all. Butt out and sit down.”

“I can handle it, ’Ski!” Jenkins said. She glared indignantly at Williams too; making it clear that whatever his intentions, she wasn’t interested.

Kaminski bobbed his head, pressed on: in Williams’ face within seconds. Before I could follow him, Kaminski balled a fist and threw a punch.

“Whoa, Private!” Williams canted.

He ducked the blow with surprising speed. Kaminski connected with a bottle of beer on the bar, smashing it. Onlookers retreated in a wide arc of the two fighters.

Kaminski set his jaw. I’d seen that look on his face before; and knew that he wouldn’t be cowed. He lashed out with another right hook. This time the blow caught Williams squarely in the mouth. He reeled back.

“Y…you fucking hit me!”

There was a bright smear of blood on his lip.

The Warfighters were suddenly behind Williams. They bristled bad energy; just drunk enough to take out their frustrations on anyone who got in their way. Looking at the big Martian’s death-stare, considering his enormous bulk, I didn’t want to have to take him on in my own skin.

“We were just talking about old times, man!” Williams repeated. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“’Ski!” Jenkins roared. Her eyes flared and she immediately looked a whole lot more like a soldier, regardless of what she was wearing. “I said I can handle this myself!”

I considered what to do. Martinez and Mason were on either side of me now.

“I’d like nothing more than to put that big red bastard down,” Martinez said, pointing at the Warfighter. “New Girl is with me.”

I didn’t want this deteriorating into an all-out bar brawl: not in a pressure-cooker environment like the
Colossus
.

“Stand down,” I said. “Kaminski, step away.”

He reluctantly backed from the bar but kept his eyes on Williams. A blonde medtech – a woman I’d seen around the Medical Deck – moved to Williams’ side, wiping at his split lip with a wet towel. It didn’t look serious; had been more of a warning shot than a serious assault. Just as Kaminski eyed Williams, the medtech kept eyes on Jenkins: the look that told me, whatever the truth of the situation, she thought Jenkins was somehow to blame.

“We need to talk,” I said to Kaminski. “Everyone else, I think it’s time to call it a night. Williams, see to your people.”

Williams nodded slowly, senses dulled by drink and the recent blow. He waved over to his team. The two female troopers came to his side, the big Martian following shortly after.

“I’ll take you down to the infirmary,” the medtech said, coddling Williams’ jaw. “Get you fixed right up.” Under her breath: “They’re damn animals.”

I watched them leave the mess hall, Williams making the most of his injury.

I turned to James. “Nice talking with you, Lieutenant.”

He lifted his beer in my direction. “And you, Major.”

Then I marched Kaminski outside, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the bar as we left.

We rode the elevator all the way up to the starship’s top deck. Kaminski remained in petulant silence throughout: arms crossed, breathing through his nose. Suited me fine.

“Where are we going?” he eventually asked.

“Hydroponics. You need some space to cool down.”

The Hydroponics deck was huge – several hundred square metres, crammed with gene-spliced plant strains. Arranged into oversized and automated feeding troughs, the plants provided a back-up oxygen-source and in an emergency could yield limited foodstuffs. On a ship this size, both of those aims were likely to be missed by a long way – we’d surely starve and suffocate should life support give out – but it was somewhere quiet. Overhead, banks of hanging halogen lamps flickered on as we entered. I squinted against the strong illumination; switched some of the lamps off. Satisfied with the artificial twilight, I picked my way through the jungle. Kaminski followed behind.

“What was that about?” I asked him.

I wandered around the edge of a planter, senses overloaded with a variety of exotic pollens. The smells were alien to me: nearly choking.

“Nothing.”

“You want to spend your whole career as a PFC?”

“Not especially.”

“Then hitting a senior officer, even if he is an asshole, isn’t a very good idea. Williams is a captain, for fuck sake.”

Kaminski fumbled around another planter, setting off the watering system. He jumped back – cursing as water pumped across the monstrous roots of the plant.

“Where I come from, there are no plants like this,” Kaminski grumbled. “There are no plants. Period.”

“You can quit the big-time Brooklyn front, Vinnie. I know where you come from, and you know where I started too.”

An avid gardener had assembled a couple of deck loungers, like those found on the pleasure decks of interplanetary cruise liners, in one corner. From the piles of empty beer cans and ration packs that were piled beside them, I reckoned that the operation had been conducted without Admiral Loeb’s approval, but whoever was responsible was long gone.

Reluctantly, Kaminski helped me move the loungers into a better position, beside one of the floor-to-wall view-ports.

“That’s better,” I said. “Now sit. We need to talk.”

I sat on my lounger and cracked open the unlabelled vodka bottle. I took a mouthful of the harsh liquor. I liked vodka: drunk neat, it had an immediate and honest effect. I felt that numbness begin to creep through me, moving me one step closer to being properly drunk. I passed it to Kaminski. He flopped onto a lounger as well. Took the bottle and drank deep from it.

“That would strip paint,” he said.

“It’s alcoholic,” I said. “It’ll do.”

Kaminski stared around the deck. “This place is nasty. Why’d you bring me up here?”

“To give you some space. You’re the longest-serving Legionnaire, and you know that I cut you slack whenever I can, but that was out of order.”

Kaminski stared at the floor for a beat. He looked a lot like a big kid.

“Are you listening to me?” I asked.